


The Hound Maiden

by Threepaws



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Humiliation, Joffrey exacts punishment in only the way Joffrey can!, Play on words, The Hound doesn't leave, Yet another post BBB
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-08 13:38:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7759882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Threepaws/pseuds/Threepaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another post BBB that nobody asked for but here it is! Sandor comes to Sansa's chamber whilst blackwater bay burns up with Wildfyre. He asks her to leave with her and then she refuses. From here on in it's on a Threepaws tangent! Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this concept just wouldn't leave me alone, until I had to sit down and type it out! 
> 
> Please bare with as the first part of the chapter is heavily influenced by Chapter 63 of ACOK and season 2 interpretation of Sansa and Sandor's interactions. Its kinda hard to come up with anything original for an encounter that has been visited a lot in so many wonderful reads on AO3.  
> Also this is my first attempt at writing in canon? - is that right?!
> 
> My other Sansan fics are modern universe so this has been a learning curve. Constructive criticism is very welcome.
> 
> So here is chapter 1! Enjoy!

Sansa pants hard, her chest straining against the constraints of her ill fitting corset as she bodily shuts the heavy oaken door then bars it; sweat beading her forehead after her run through the corridors of the Red Keep. _A lady never runs_ , but in this case her slippered feet flew across the flagstone corridors with the ring of Cersei’s assessment of what would happen to them if the Red Keep should fall to the attack by Stannis. Ser Ilyn’s dead eyes never left her and his constant finger twitch to the pommel of his great sword confirmed what he would do.

Sansa didn’t want to die tonight, nor be raped and with the help of her handmaiden, Shae she managed to escaped the room her fellow highborn ladies were ensconced within. Her chambers were as black as pitch and it took her several moments for her eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. The hearth fire was nothing but smouldering ash and the candles had long burnt out so the only light would be from the window, which was now obscured by heavy drapes.

She felt the silks swirling around her legs as she moved towards the window; unconsciously picking up the little doll her father had gifted her with. A gift she had scorned. Her beloved father’s last gift to her, before his death at the hands of her ‘beloved,’ Joffrey. Bitterness twists her insides at the memory and she forces herself from one horror to another as she rips back the drapes and encounters the horror of the scene below, her breath catches in her throat.

The southern sky was aswirl with glowing green colours, reflecting up from great fires that burned below. She can hear the distant sound of fighting below her out towards the bay, steel clashing against steel and the hollers and howls from men at war, punctuated by blood curdling cries. The green light is from flames like none she has seen before. _This must be the wildfyre of which Ser Lancel spoke of when he arrived in the queen’s ballroom that she and the ladies were awaiting._

Her thoughts fly to The Hound and how he must be faring against his real foe, not the soldiers belonging to Stannis, but the flames. Years have passed since he confided in her how he got his burns in the depths of the night with Tourney tents in honour of her father behind them and his threat that he would kill her if she told a single soul. She has kept her promise despite wondering if his threat was true or empty.

Backing away from the window clutching her doll, retreating to the safety of her bed. _I’ll go to sleep,_ she told herself, _and when I awake it will be a new day, and the sky will be blue again._ Sitting on her bed she clutches the little doll, stroking her hair like it was one of Lady’s soft ears. She whimpers softly, wondering if she would meet her wolf again when she is dead. How she misses her direwolf, now more than ever.

A cry forms in her throat when something stirs behind her, and a hand reaches out in the darkness and grabs at her wrist. When she is about to let forth an ear-piercing scream another hand reaches out and clamps down over her face, smothering her with calloused fingers, sticky with blood.

“Little bird. I knew you’d come.” The voice was a drunken rasp.

_It’s The Hound, he’s here in my chambers, but why?_

A bright swirling emerald green light fills the room with a bright green glare, she can see him in this moment, all black and green, with blood on his face and matting his hair, his eyes glow like that of a dog or wolf’s caught in a sudden glare.

“If you scream, I’ll kill you. You’d best believe that.”

He releases his hand from her mouth but remains an iron grip on her wrist. Reaching for a flagon of wine sat on her bedside table he takes a long pull before speaking once more.

“Alls lost, little bird. The bloody dwarf has sent the bay up in flames, fuck him, fuck the city and fuck the king, I’m going.”

_The Hound is drunker than I’ve ever seen him before, she muses but his confused by his will to leave._

“Leaving?”

“The little bird repeats whatever she hears, going, yes.” He sneers.

“Where will you go?” She asks

“Away from here, someplace that isn’t buring. North might be. Could be.”

“You won’t get out.” Sansa says with conviction. “The queen’s closed up Maegor’s, and the city gates will be shut as well.”

The Hound’s voice is all sneer. “Not to me, I have a white cloak. And I have _this.”_ He pats the pommel of his sword before continuing. “The man who tries to stop me is a dead man. Unless he’s on fire.” He laughs bitterly before looking at her once more. “So what will it be, little bird? Do you wish to flee this rats nest? Do you want to go home?”

The promise of him going North, taking her home to her mother, her brother Robb fills her with an aching longing she has long put to bed. But the thought of escaping this place seems so preposterous. He’s drunk, he couldn’t protect her in this state and that would doom them both.

“I’ll be safe here, Stannis won’t hurt me.”

The grip on her wrist tightens and twists her so she is laid forcefully against the bedclothes, pins from her southron hairstyle biting into her scalp.

“Look at Me.” He commands. “Stannis is a killer, the Lannisters are killers, you father was a killer, your brother is a killer, your sons will be killers someday. The world is built by killers, so you better get used to looking at them.

Sansa seeks his gaze, which is so full of anger and hate, but can hold it for all but a moment.

“Fine. If you won’t come. I’ll have that song you promised me.”

This startles Sansa, how can he expect her to sing for him right now. A city at war with him pressing her bodily down upon her bed.

“A-a song?” she stutters weakly.

“Aye.”

“I-I can’t. I don’t know any songs. Not anymore.

Before she can form a further sentence, something cold and sharp presses against the smooth skin of her neck.

“W-what are you doing?” she asks him breathily, her heart pounding in her ears.

“I want that song. Little bird. Please.” He rasps harshly. The courtesy clashing with the hate in his voice.

_It is not a song, but it will have to do._

Opening her mouth she sings the mothers hymn, haltingly at first but gathering strength. She sings sweetly.

“Gentle Mother, font of mercy

Save our sons from war, we pray

Stay the swords and stay the arrows,

Let them know a better day.

Gentle Mother, Strength of women,

Help our daughters through this fray.

Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,

Teach us all a kinder way.”

Her voice peters out and the silence is a tangible thing. The blade held to her throat is lifted away and she reaches up to touch his unburnt cheek, she feels the stickiness of blood as well as something that isn’t. She feels him flinch briefly before he sags into her open hand. His lank hair falls to her frame either side of her face. His exhaled breath puffs out, blowing across her face, her lips and she thinks he will kiss her. So much so that she closes her eyes and parts her lips in expectation, but a jolt of the bed and once again she is upright, her hand released from his grasp, which she flexes, as needles and pins assault it.

She hears the heavy thump of fabric hitting the floor as The Hound straightens once more with broad amour clad shoulders. He turns but doesn’t look her in the eye.

“I’m going little bird.”

The thought of being alone here, without a protector, without a friend of sorts, fills her with dread. She pleas with the Hound.

“Please, do not go. They will kill you if they find you. And you’re injured. I cannot lose you. You are my only friend here.” She pleads tears catching in her throast and making her voice wobble.

“Not your friend. Little bird.”

On that he departs her bedchambers leaving her alone. Shakily she stands up and bars the door before heading back to her bed. On route back she trips with a squeal throwing her hands out she catches herself on the mahogany bedpost. Looking for what caused her to trip she finds The Hounds Kingsguard cloak, sliding to her knees she reaches out and grasps at the woollen fabric. Less white now with stains of smoke smudging and blood splattering the material. She clutches it to her and inhales the smell of war along with a distinctly masculine scent she recalls when he loaned her his cloak a previous time. _The clean smell of soap and the woodsy smell of man enveloped her exposed body, shielding her nakedness from the court._

She lets out a sob, big fat tears rolling down her face. He’s gone and she prays he will be safe. Slumber creeps upon her like the Stranger, dragging her into black depths of her mind. Sansa is curled upon the floor, The Hounds cloak protecting her from the horrors once more.

*

Sansa is awoken by the attempt of somebody trying to enter her bedchambers. Her eyes are puffy and gritty with salt and tears. She finds herself aching all over from her unladylike position on the floor, covered in a white cloak.

_It wasn’t a dream. He’s gone._

“M’lday?” it’s Shae. Open this door at once.” The lilting voice of her Lorathi handmaiden cuts the silence of a new day.

“One moment Shae.” She calls out as she stands with The Hounds cloak draped upon her shoulders. She unbolts the door and her handmaiden pushes herself in before shutting the heavy door with a slam. Her slim figure in the dusky pink silks of the palace handmaidens is a swirl as she takes Sansa in, brown eyes narrowing.

“Why do you have a Kingsguard cloak covering you?” She accuses.

“The Hound paid me a visit last night, during the battle.”

Shae hisses “What did he want? Did he touch you?”

Sansa’s relationship with Shae is not that of a conventional noblewomen and her maid in her employ. Like The Hound, Shae has become one of the few people she can trust in this hateful place. She knows she is no true handmaiden but is involved with Lord Tyrion and she is far better than having one of Cersei’s spies in her rooms.

“He offered to take me away from here, take me home.”

Shae’s eyes widen so much she looks like a startled cat. “He did? Why? Why didn’t you go with him?”

“Yes, he did. I don’t know why. He was drunk and he was frightened. I feared in that state he wouldn’t be able to protect us.”

Shae takes several steps forward and smoothes the Hounds cloak from her shoulders, folding it over he arm.

“I will dispose of this, as soon as I can.”

“No. You can’t” She blurts forth, feeling heat warm her cheeks at her outburst. But she cannot lose this cloak.

Shae regards her as if she is a silly child but relents

“Very well, but we must hide it. It wouldn’t be good for someone to find this.”

Sansa glances around her room, and then her eyes fall on the heavy carved chest at the foot of her bed. Her clothes she wore back home, at Winterfell are in there as they are far too heavy to wear in the heat of Kingslanding. Throwing open the lid, she heaps her clothes onto the bed and Shae folds the cloak as small as it will go before arranging her winter furs on top. A knock at the door has them both jumping with fright.

Shae regains her composure and crosses the room, opening the oak door a crack.

“Yes?”

“Lady Sansa is required in the throne room within an hour.” Comes the sharp reply from Ser Meryn.

“I will get her ready then, ser.”

Closing the door, she beckons Sansa to the vanity.

“Sit, we best get you ready.”

*

Sansa’s feet ache and her shoulders are determined to droop as hours have passed as King Joffrey receives man after man who have played an integral part in the success of the battle of blackwater bay where they crushed the pretender Lord Stannis. In this time men have been given riches, given lands and titles and new members of the Kingsguard have been named since one member died in battle and another deserted.

A lightness in her chest has begin to bloom as she has been cast aside as Joffrey’s betrothed in favour of Lady Margaery Tyrell. She soon sombers when Joffrey looks her way.

“You may no longer be my betrothed my lady, but she are still a ward of the crown and will remain here at my pleasure. “

He quips, eyes narrowed with a hint of pleasure, which causes bile to rise in her mouth, she breaks eye contact and stares at her hands.

“Lord Tyrion is absent as he recovers from wounds received in battle but I, your king wish him a speedy recovery.” He says half-heartedly.

Now is the time for the prisoners, defeated weary men await to hear their fate by their king. Far too many are sentenced to death and Sansa shudders at the almost euphoric gleam in the eye of The Kings Justice, Ser Ilyn. Some of the nobler men within the line are sentenced to serve at The Wall. Where her father should have gone, where Jon is.

Murmurs draw her attention back to the room as an uncommonly large man is brought before the king. Head bowed with long lank hair obscuring his scars. Her breath hitches in her throat. _Why is he still here?_ Her hands feel clammy as she grips the marble balustrade before her.

“Ah, they you are, Dog. I see we found you with your tail tucked in your chambers after the battle.”

Joffreys voice is laced with malicious glee as he takes in this fallen warrior. Her heart goes out to the Hound.

“Aye, your Grace.”

Comes his gravelly response.

“You disgraced your position as Kingsguard, Dog. From the oath you sw-“

“Never swore the oath, your grace.”

Joffrey’s eyes narrow and his lips purse as he sits up from his slouch on the iron throne.

“That may be so, but you should have remained at your post. By rights I should have your ugly head to decorate a spike on the red keep...” He pauses and Sansa feels her heart stop in her chest. “But my Grandfather and saviour of this city reminds me of your continued loyal service to House Lannister and I can’t overlook that, it would seem.”

It would be appear to Sansa that Joffrey wishes very much he could overlook Lord Tywin’s directive.

“You are no knight, dog and from here on forth you are stripped of your place in the kingsguard and will not resume your previous role as my sworn shield. Since your passion for battle has been extinguished, I feel a more gentler role would be more suited to your craven self.”

His green eyes and blonde curls dance with glee as he stares down at the Hound, who has lifted his head, awaiting his fate.

“The only role I can see suitable for a craven dog is at the heels of a traitorous wolf bitch.”

_What does he mean?_

“Lady Sansa, you are no longer my betrothed and your hand maiden will be assigned to Lady Margaery. In her stead The Hound will carry out _All_ of what hand maidens do. To you.”

Steel grey meet Tully blue rimmed with white fright and fear.

_He can’t be serious? Can he?_

Sansa and as it would also appear, Sandor are stood in stunned silence as the great room erupts in protest of Joffrey’s decision.

Images of Shae assisting with bathing her, dressing her, combing her hair are replaced with large calloused hands.

“Enough!” comes the shrill voice of Joffrey and his bangs his hand on the iron throne before crying out a sharp wail as he stabs himself accidently on one of the blades. He cradles his hand in his lap as his mother Cersei attempts to stem the bleeding with some silk. “I the King have declared it, and it is so. From here on The Hound is now lady Sansa’s Hound maiden.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thank you all so much for the kudos, comments and encouragement with this story! You're all wonderful! :-)
> 
> So much so that my fingers have been flying over the keyboard to bring you the second chapter!
> 
> Enjoy!

_This cannot be happening, this must be a bad dream_. Sansa flees the throne room closely followed by Ser Meryn chuckling under his breath. When she arrives at her chambers she finds Shae bewildered and cursing as a small army of castle folk bustle around her rooms, removing her gowns from the wardrobe and packing up her belongings. _What is going on?_ Shae turns to her, her brown eyes flashing wildly as she approaches.

“What is this meaning of this, mi’ lady?” her lilting voice attempts for meek handmaiden which, inappropriately in this situation makes Sansa smile.

“I’m not quite sure Shae. All I know is you are now in the employ of King Joffrey’s betrothed, Lady Margaery Tyrell.” She speaks matter of factly to Shae, to try and avoid piquing the interest of the eyes and ears within the room.

Sansa has never heard Shae stutter. “B-but My Lady, you are the kings betrothed.”

“N-not as of today. However I am here to remain as his guest. Something I should be grateful for.” Shae’s uncharacteristic stutter making herself do so in turn. To try and gain some understanding of the bustling in her chamber she turns to address whom she assumes is the head of house keeping, “Excuse me, may I ask what you are doing with my possessions.”

The plump matronly lady drops into a small curtsy before speaking softly. “Pardons my lady, his grace, the king requests your accommodations are moved to somewhere more befitting your status. I will escort you there momentarily.”

Sansa lets out a silent prayer, _please let it not be the black cells._

“Thank you. I will await your direction to my lodgings. Shae, please join me on the balcony.”

Her slippered feet glide across the bustling expanse of what will no longer be her chambers, pushing lightly of the brass handle she steps into the warm rays of the evening sun. Shae stands beside her after she closes the balcony door with a ‘click.’ Staring out across the city to the bay that was lit green the previous night she informs her friend and handmaiden of the events of the afternoon.

Shae is spitting Lorathi curses as the tail unfolds. Once she turns, she sees Sansa with fat droplets of tears forming in her eyes she approaches, taking her face and cradling it between her hands.

“He won’t harm you my lady. I will cut him if he tries.”

Sansa’s lips form a wobbly smile at the thought of slight, funny Shae taking on the fearsome Hound.

*

Sansa is surprised her new accommodation is not in the dungeons, nor the black cells but a far grander apartment than her previous gilded cage. There is a large reception space with a white marble fireplace and two comfy looking armchairs flanking a circular side table. Before the double glass doors extending out onto a balcony overlooking the courtyard is a mahogany dining table polished to a high shine.

Two rooms lead off from the main room to a grand bedchamber with an imposing four-poster bed and a sumptuous looking feather mattress. The furniture made from a warm red wood intricately carved with leaves and flowers. A tapestry adorns the wall of a pack of black hunting dogs hounding a silvery grey wolf. _How fitting._

Her chest is already at the foot of her bed and her ill-fitting clothing has already been placed into the large wardrobe. A housemaid is quietly setting her comb and hairbrush upon the vanity station. A footstool with a brocaded blue fabric sits beneath it. A private privy also leads from her bed chambers.

The other room is much smaller and more simply furnished. Clearly this is meant for a live in handmaid. Her stomach flutters at the thought of Shae being so close to her but it then sours like spoilt milk. Shae will not be her constant companion. It will be the Hound.

The hour is getting late and a couple of maids bring her a light meal of bread, cheeses and thin slices of meat to sup with, along with some plump red grapes and a glass of Arbor gold. Her stomach is in knots when a soft voice speaks, startling her.

“Sit my lady, let me brush out your hair before bed.”

It’s Shae.

Gratitude is swiftly replaced by worry for her friend. “What are you doing here, Shae? You aren’t in my service anymore. You could get in so much trouble.”

“Hush, I haven’t been summoned yet.” Shae picks up the soft bristled brush and deftly unpins the ornate decorations from her Southron do. Russet waves cascade down her back and then the gentle pressure of Shae running the brush over and through her hair, smoothing in and polishing it to a fiery shine. Sansa can feel her eyelids droop at the soothing ministration, but then is startled wide with a harsh rap to her chamber door.

“Shae, you cannot be found here. Hide in the privy.” She whispers as her friend nods and silently pads into the privy, closing the door softly behind her. Sansa stands and unbars the door. Her breath hitches and she drops into a low curtsy. “Your Grace.”

Joffrey is stood before her wearing Lannister red and gold with the crown still upon his head from holding court earlier today. The only new adornment is a clean wrapping of bandage silks covering his hand. Beside him is his betrothed, Lady Margaery who she dips a curtsy to also. Behind him Ser Meryn and a new Kingsguard member, whose name deserts her flank his grace but towering above all of them, even several paces behind, is the Hound.

“I hope you like your rooms Lady Sansa. A gracious king must keep his guests comfortable. Are you comfortable?”

“Y-yes your Grace. Most comfortable.”

“Are you sure? You wouldn’t like a bath? I can get your hand maiden to draw one for you?” glittering eyes smile in his hateful face.

For the second time today blue meets grey, but this time her eyes are the startled ones. His eyes are flat and devoid of emotion. Gathering herself she stammers ever so slightly. “M-my th-thanks your Grace, but I have already bathed today.”

His features darken, his thin lips puckering into a pout. “Well you can ha-“

“Maybe on the morrow your Grace. It would seem foolish for Lady Sansa to have another bath when there are so many new members of the household who would benefit from the hot water. Don’t you think your Grace.” Maragery interrupts.

_That was bold._

Joffrey’s green gaze freezes and the silence cuts the hallway before he speaks. “You are right my love. It would be foolish for a traitor’s daughter to have two baths in one day. Tomorrow though.” His eyes are full of promise and death. “Lady Sansa. I present you with your new handmaiden. Dog.” He commands and the Kingsguard part to let the broad expanse of the Hound through.

He is without armour and dresses in a simple woven tunic with cloth breeches and high boots. Two large satchels are slung upon either shoulder making him look gigantic, even without steel plate hanging off of his frame.

Sansa steps back with a small gasp as the Hound steps across the threshold of the chamber. The grin upon Joffrey’s face his clear he got the desired reaction.

“Well I’ll bid you goodnight. Lady Sansa. Dog.” He awaits a muted “Goodnight your grace from her self and the Hound before departing, shutting the door with a snap.

Sansa turns and faces the Hound whose features remain impassive as he stares her down. She can feel the beginnings of gooseflesh prickling her skin, as if ants are marching along her arms and legs. Licking her lips she tries to force words around the clod in her throat.

“I-I thought you was going.”

“Aye, as did I. Seems like that didn’t happen though.”

“B-but why?”

Silence is all she is met with for a long time. He won’t answer her.”

“I am sorry you are now in this position. But I’m glad you aren’t dead.” She whispers sincerely.

“Quit your chirping little bird. Let me find where to drop my shite then I’ll get you ready for bed.” He turns her head from left to right, locating the servant’s quarters and striding towards the open door.

Shock, not only at his crass language but at the thought of hand maidenly duties he will have to attend makes her squeal out in horror.

“You can’t!”

The imposing mass of the Hound disappears into his sleeping quarters before re-entering the reception space, deliberately drawing up to his full height, grey eyes flashing with a sneer half twisting his thin lips.

“Can’t? Can’t what?”

“You cannot get me ready for bed. You are not a handmaiden and you are not my lord husband. Its not proper.”

“Nothings proper about this situation little bird” he spits, “but you heard our gracious king. Only having our heads on spikes will befall us if we don’t play his game.”

Tears prick at her blue eyes at the realisation of The Hounds truth. _A hound will die for you, never lie to you. There is no getting away from this is there?_

With a resigned acceptance to the impossible situation she has found herself in. _will the humiliation ever end_? She turns away from the Hound, drawing her silken to a shine red hair over her right shoulder, exposing the nape of her neck and the fastenings of her gown to the fearsome Hound.

She closes her eyes and almost swears she heard the Hound gulp as he approaches her. She can feel his proximity clinging like a wet cloak along with the resistance of the slight tug of the first fastening when a bang at her chamber door causes her eyes to flash open to take in the furious figure of Shae.

“Let her go, Dog.” She almost growls at him, whilst brandishing a small blade. _Where did that come from?”_

The harsh barking laugh makes her cringe away from the reaching fingers of the Hound.

“What the fuck is this? You think you’re going to hurt me with that toothpick of a blade. I’ll snap you in two before you make a half arsed try. Now lower the fucking blade.” He rasps back, grey eyes flashing with anger.

“You are not to touch my lady.” She spits.

“Oh, aye? And how am I meant to undress her and shit if I cannot touch her? You want her dead, that’s it? Because that’s what she’s got to look forward to if we don’t play by that golden cunts rules.”

“He’s right Shae. Joffrey won’t stop until I’m dishonoured or dead and I don’t want to die.” He voice wobbles with the strain of the evening, so much so she feels faint. Before she can disgrace herself further she approaches the table and sits before her supper, plucking a grape and nibbling at it, the sweet juices grounding her somewhat.

Shae and The Hound watch her as she quietly nibbles at the food before her. She doesn’t make eye contact with either of them as she stoically places morsel after morsel into her mouth.

“Let me put her to bed tonight, she’s been through too much this past day. Then I will talk you through your duties.”

She hears a growl, which must be acquiescence as Shae’s dainty hand perches upon her shoulder. “Come my lady.”

Standing up to her full height she turns away from the dining table, gives a nod of goodnight to The Hound, which he returns with a flash of grey eyes with a furrow between his heavy browed solemn face and she disappears into her bedchamber. Shae methodically undresses her and slips her sleeping gown over her head and turns down the sheets for her to slip into.

“Goodnight, my lady.” Shae murmurs softly, her Lorathi lilt a welcome kiss

“Goodnight, Shae.” She murmurs back equally soft.

For a long time she can hear lilting murmurs and grumbled responses before slipping into a dreamless sleep.

*

“Wake up, Little bird.” Comes an unwelcome and unfamiliar rasp. Her sleep has been fitful and she is not ready to face the day yet. Rolling away from the unwelcome voice she snuggles deeper into her bedding, scrunching her eyes up to will away the noise.

Scrunched eyes suddenly open wide when the bed linen is whipped away from her, cold morning air assaulting her exposed legs and arms. Sitting up wildly, sleep blurred eyes focus on a laughing Hound.

_Oh Gods, it wasn’t a nightmare_

His voice is harsh like steel on stone, which grates on her along with his uncouth wake up call.

She huffs at him, which causes him to laugh harder.

“Rise and shine, the king requires your presence whilst he breaks his fast.”

Upon hearing of the Kings summons, she moves swiftly, not wanting to keep him waiting. The Hound holds out her dressing robe, which she slips into and secures the knot before entering the reception space. A basin of steaming water is sat upon the table beside the fire. She feels sticky from her slumber and will require a quick bathe before dressing.

She is conscious of the brooding presence in the room. She cannot wash with him watching her but will need his assistance to dress and tend to her hair. _Seven give me strength._

Clearing her throat her voice comes out hoarse. “Excuse me, Ser.”

“Not a Ser.” He cuts her off.

“What am I to call you then?”

“Hound, Dog, doesn’t matter to me”

The thought of using such derogatory words for this warrior doesn’t sit well with her. “I’m sorry but I cannot call you that. What is your family name?”

There is a short pause. “Clegane. Sandor Clegane.”

She mouths his name out silently. So similar is his given name to hers. Comforting almost.

“M-may I call you Sandor? I know it’s not proper, but as you said last night, so little is proper about the situation we have found ourselves in.”

There is a longer pause this time and she turns to look him in the eyes. “Aye, if it pleases my lady?” what starts out slightly unsure twists and becomes a sneer once more.

Choosing to ignore him she continues directly. “Sandor, I must bathe myself briefly. I excuse you from my presence for the moment, but will call upon you when I need assistance to dress and arrange my hair.”

A gruff, a snort and a stomp is the only response she gets but finds herself alone in the reception space. Quickly she unwraps the robe and removes the shift. A light gooseflesh prickles her skin but she doesn’t feel like eyes are upon her. She knows how that feels.

Dipping the washcloth into steaming warm water she squeezes the excess water out before dabbing and wiping at her face, making sure she gets the gritty sleep from the corners of her eyes. Afterwards she applies some of the goats milk soap infused with lemon and rosemary oil to the cloth, working up a lather before bathing her neck, chest and beneath her arms. Rinsing the cloth once more she repeats then dries herself with a soft towelling cloth. She retrieves fresh smallclothes and shift from her wardrobe and selects a plain blue gown with simple ties. She can step into it and push her arms through the sleeves so only her bare back will be exposed to The Hound. _No Sandor_ , she admonishes herself. She knows she is delaying the inevitable of having to expose herself to him in a way a woman only really should to her lord husband. But she cannot face that crippling embarrassment yet.

“S-Sandor? I am ready for you to dress me and tend to my hair. If it pleases you?” she calls softly. She feels nervous to be in such a close proximity to him.

He approaches swiftly and silently, his scarred visage appearing in the mirror making her jump. Not because of the scars, it has been a long time since they repulsed her but from his stealth like movements. _Surely she should have heard him?_ However, Sandor doesn’t take it like that.

“Sit.” He commands which she does obediently as he grabs her brush from the vanity stand. “Thought you’d have been used to my face by now, little bird. The amount of times Joffrey has used it to torment you. Might not be pretty as that Lorathi whore.”

He starts brushing through her bed-tangled waves, catching on snags causing her to wince and tears to prick her eyes. However his demeaning description of her friend pushes the pain tot he back of her mind, for now.

“Shae is not a whore.” She states, blue eyes flashing at grey ones in her mirror.

“Of course she is, she knows nothing of being a handmaiden. She’s only here to keep the imps bed warm.”

“I don’t believe you. Your just saying hateful things… ow!” she yelps at the end when he tugs on a particularly tangled piece of hair.

“Might be hateful but still true and stop wriggling.” He gruffs back.

She sits upright as a lady should as he continues to pull at her hair until she can take the pinches to her scalp no longer.

“Sandor stop.” She blurts forth. “If I have a tangle in my hair, just dragging the comb through it will not help. Hold the strands above and tease the tangles out using the teeth of the comb. Once the tangle is free then brush through the length.”

There is a deafening silence and she sees the knuckles whiten over the comically small brush in his hand. He fears he will fly into a rage but instead a quiet murmur of “Stranger is never so difficult” before he sets the brush down and retrieves the whalebone comb and sets to as she instructed. The tangles are loosing quickly and painlessly now and she smiles when he begins to drag the brush back through her hair, the bristles biting nicely at her scalp causing her to shiver. All too soon he has finished and she waits for him to arrange her hair.

But he just stands there.

“How should you wear you hair?” he rasps

_Oh?! He won’t know how to pin up hair. Silly me!_

There is a harsh knock at the door, Sansa and Sandor stare at eachother. The knock comes again. “You need to answer it she hisses under her breath.”

Rolling his eyes he stomps to the door and wrenches it open. “Fuck you want, Trant?”

“His Grace commands the presense of Lady Sansa immediately, Dog. I am here to escort her.”

“She’s not ready.” He growls.

“Then make her ready.”

Sansa hears the bitter exchange and decides to braid her hair over he shoulder. It is no fancy Southron do but it will have to do. She hears the door slam shut just as she is fixing a tie to the end of the braid.

“I’m ready.” She calls the grey-eyed reflection in the mirror. She stands up tall and begins to look for slippers to wear.

“No you’re not, little bird.” He states before tugging her gently back by the silken lengths or cord to close the back of the dress. _Oh! How embarrassing of me to nearly leave my chambers with my back exposed!_ Methodically he weaves the cords through the loops closing up the back of the dress, she can feel the heat from the pads of his fingers even through her shift, which makes her tremble.

“Now you are ready to go.” She states.

“Thank you Sandor.”

“What do I do now?”

This startles her, so rarely has she had to give directions before.

“Y-you await my return. In the meantime you can make the bed, empty the water from the basin and send my clothing to be laundered.”

Her cheeks heat at giving him instructions but he just nods curtly.

Opening the door, Ser Meryn is smirking at her with malicious amusement in his blue eyes. Offering her his arm she reluctantly takes it and is guided to what no doubt will be a morning of torment. Schooling her features to passivity as they turn the corner she glances back to see The Hound staring after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it?!
> 
> So lets see how Joffrey's delightful self is in the next chapter...
> 
> Please comment, they make my day.
> 
> NB: For those of you reading Sister Sin, I may put it on the back burner for a short while whilst the fic is so insistently in the forefront of my mind at the moment.
> 
> Hope thats ok?!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all I would like to apologise for how long it has been between chapters. I struggled to find a flow with this chapter and have been 'bitting and bobbing' with it over the last few months!
> 
> RL has been the main contributing factor to my absence from the typing chair with a few roller coaster events happening... I will share but feel free to skip on and get to the story if you wish!
> 
> So first of all I have had a promotion at work, which is great! I love my job and I am happy with the new challenges it will bring, as well as a wage increase! Secondly I have been on holiday with Mr. Threepaws and the Jess pup to Wales which was a welcome break. Thirdly I have decided to have horse riding lessons which I am enjoying very much.
> 
> Sadly however, it would appear that I have become a target by an unknown individual at work who decided to deface a photograph of myself, husband and Jess pup on my locker. To say I am shocked is a massive understatement. I didn't think anybody I worked with was capable of such a childish act and I cannot think who I would have pissed off enough to do that. I mean we all have colleagues at work you get on with better than others but in the all the years I have been there it has never been personal attacks on peoples belongings. It is being taken very seriously by my employers but it has flawed me. 
> 
> So in retreating into myself and giving me some time to do something I enjoy, I offer up this instalment for you all to read. I hope you all enjoy!

As predicted breaking her fast with King Joffrey was an ordeal, to say the least. On arriving in the family’s private dining suite she greeted King Joffrey, his mother Cersei and his grandfather Lord Tywin with a low curtsey. Joffrey kept her in that position for an age, no doubt ogling her bulging bosom in the ill-fitting dress. To keep her mind off the burning ache in her legs, neck and shoulder muscles, she kept her eyes trained on the wooden floor – varnished to a high shine beneath her, counting the knots and whorls in the wood.

When she was moments from stumbling, a the distinct clearing of a throat, low and gruff, which belonged to Lord Tywin eventually released her from her tortured show of respect. Her legs were as shaky as a newborn foals as she attempted graceful steps to be seated at the dining table, which was long and rectangular mahogany piled high with extravagant looking dishes, making her mouth water despite her company.

Initially breakfast was a quiet affair, as the dining guests took advantage of the feast before them. Sansa picked delicately at a bowl off oats cooked with goat’s milk and seasoned with nutmeg and honey. It was quite soothing on her churning stomach.

However peace was short lived when three sets of glittering green eyes focused on her, two sets carefully guarded and the last brimming with malicious glee.

Joffrey opened his mouth and smiled winningly across at her with straight white teeth. Once such a smile from him would have set her heart flutter, now it only thumped hard against her ribcage. With dread.

“I trust you are smitten with your new rooms and you have been most comfortable?” he asked conversationally.

“Why yes your Grace, I have been most comfortable. You have my thanks to host me in such well appointed rooms.”

“Yes, the suite is far above the station of a traitors daughter and sister to the pretender king. Don’t ever forget it.”

“I won’t, your grace.” You lowers her gaze the her plate, her half eaten lemon cake sat there forlornly.

“Good. And how are you finding your new hand maiden?” He sneers.

“As the daughter of a traitor, I couldn’t hope for more.” She replies monotonously.

“Yes, well quite right.” The king replies, slightly mollified for a moment into his green eyes glitter darkly.

On and on it went, this interrogation of last night’s habits. She tried to remain passive and docile which seemed to infuriate the king more. Eventually he bid her to leave with a demand for her hair to be styled in the Southron way the following day. And a bath. He was most adamant on her bathing routine.

*

She exhaled once she reached her chambers; stepping within and ignoring the sneering face of Ser Meryn she turned and found her chambers curiously empty. The previous nights plates were absent from the dining table and her bedding had been stripped and remade with fresh linens. The doll gifted her by her father sat nestled between the pillows.

She peaks her head around the door of Sandor’s room to find it empty but surprisingly tidy. There was little in the way of personal effects as she scanned the small space, yet she assumed he might not have had time to unpack his possessions yet.

Sansa was not requested to attend court today but would have to on the morrow. All eyes would be on her as everybody was aware of her predicament. She will have to stomach their false pity and their insincere indignations only to listen to their quiet laughter as she departs. She will have to be brave but she would feel better if Sandor was hear to begin perfecting the art of the Southron do. But for now her time was hers alone; so she decided to embroider for a little while, until Sandor returned. Picking up her woven basket of silken threads and needles she decides to take a seat on the balcony and enjoy some of the sunshine. She is making a wreath of winter roses since she has quite a lot of ice blue thread and picks out the outline with a charcoal grey. She has been at it for sometime she can tell as the sun has moved far in the sky and has filled in half of the wreath with the blue thread. She hears the groan of her chamber door before the heavy wooden bar slides home. Placing her work in her basket she stands and smoothes out her skirts before slipping through the door back into the receiving space of her appointed chambers.

She can hear movement from within Sandor’s room and is puzzled as to how to proceed. Should she announce her presence or wait for him to come to her. She feels foolish and unconsciously pulls at her hands, when she startles as the looming mass of Sandor stalks out of his room. His grey eyes widen briefly before narrowing in anger.

“How long have you been here?” he snaps.

“Several hours. I have been embroidering on the balcony.” She responds squeakily, surprised by his anger and tone.

“You should have barred the door. Anybody could have decided to pay you a visit.”

“But you were absent from the room.” She squeaks

“I have buggering hands little bird. I can knock on a fucking door.”

She knows that she has probably been foolish but his admonishment is one thing, his use of such crass language in front of a maiden no less is abhorrent to her sensibilities.

“You’re awful.” She goes to turn from him and fly off into her bedchamber when he moves surprisingly quickly and steadies her elbow in his hand, halting her, her breath hitching. She can feel the pressure from his fingers but it does not carry the pinch that she would be accustomed to if it were Ser Meryn or Ser Boros.

“Plenty worse than me, little bird. Believe that.”

She glances up at stormy grey eyes filled with rage but also filled with truth. Of course there are plenty worse than him. Quite probably many of the occupants in Maegor’s in fact, given the cruelty she has witnessed. And received. She nods and he releases his gentle grip from her elbow.

A silence spreads out thick and cloying between them as they regard one another. Clearing her throat, Sansa breaks the silence.

“King Joffrey requires my hair to be styled in the Southron manner on the morrow for court.” She whispers.

He nods once then points her to the vanity in her room.

“I’ll be a moment.” Her mutters.

Sansa settles her self upon the stool her back set straight and her neck held high. She selects, a brush, comb and pins along with oils she watched Shae apply to her hair. Movement in the mirror announces Sandor’s presence as he stalks into the room; book in hand as he focuses on leafing through the pages until her settles on what he is looking for. He glances up and narrows grey eyes at her for what feels like the umpteenth time today and she then realises her mouth has dropped open in a most unladylike manner.

“Yes?”

“You have a book.” She states obviously.

“Clever little bird, aren’t ya?” he jeers.

“I-I didn’t think you read.” She answers thoughtlessly.

“Didn’t or can’t.” he snarls. “I had a master just like you, I know my letters and my numbers.” He snaps, heat colouring his cheeks.

Sansa feels wretched for the assumption on his learning. “I’m sorry Sandor. I shouldn’t have phrased it that way. Its just when I think of you, it is with a sword in hand, not a book.”

The grey depths warm from hurt as he approaches the vanity and sets the open book before her. It is a step by the step instruction on fashionable ladies hairstyles in Westeros. The page is open on the ‘classic Southron do.’ It is not as ornate as her usual do but it is a good start.

“Where did you get this?” her fingers trace the illustrations reading the instructions beside the images.

“Demanded it from one of the young hand maidens.” He gruffs.

An image of a handmaiden being approached by the fearsome Lannister Hound demanding a book on hairstyles makes her snort delicately.

“Something amuse you little bird?” his gruff voice holds a dark humour to his words.

She smiles sweetly but doesn’t deign to comment.

“Well, lets begin this mummers farce then.” He grumbles.

*

Sansa’s back is aching from the hours spent sat upon the stool as Sandor mutters and curses the complexities of the ‘classic Southron up do.’ She has tried to remain pliant and helpful but there are only so many times her scalp can get pricked with pins as he tries to secure her tresses in the style before her temper frays and she snaps at him. Her ears are bruised from the colourful language that flows forth from his twisted mouth as he curses when sections of hair he thought were secure come tumbling down moments later.

To give him his due his braiding skills are very good as he deftly weaves sections of her hair into intricate and thick braids alike depending on the section. It is the arrangement and pinning, which is his downfall and oh how it rankles him. Her hair is slick and greasy from the copious amounts of ointment he has poured onto her hair in an attempt to help set it in place. She is in half a mind to suggest they wash her hair and begin again, but that would require a bath and that is where her mind falters. She knows she is fighting the inevitable. But still.

Instead she requests a break for the privy that causes him to roll his eyes but allows her to stand. Her legs are stiff and she takes the longer route around her bed chamber to get some movement back into her legs, rubbing at her bottom through her skirts once the privy door is shut to massage some feeling into the numbed flesh. After she has made water and washed her hands she exits the room to find Sandor is absent. She pokes her head into the large receiving solar to find the afternoon hours must have passed for the evening meal has arrived and is now set upon the table.

There is a veritable feast to say it is all meant for one person. A whole chicken, a stack of buttered warm rolls, tureens of vegetables and potatoes, a pewter flagon of Arbor gold, and a tray of delicate sweet cakes are spread upon the table.

Her stomach growls in appreciation as Sandor sets a plate and cutlery at her chosen seat. She gracefully sits and starts helping herself to a little bit of everything, Sandor fills a goblet with some of the Arbor gold before retreating to his room. Sansa is so taken with the meal in front of her that she only glances away to see his broad frame disappearing at the entrance to his room.

“Where are you going?” she asks after she has swallowed the tender piece of chicken she had popped into her mouth moments before.

He glances back before halting and turning. “Giving you some space. You don’t want a ravenous dog hanging over you whilst you eat.”

“Nonsense. There is more than enough for the two of us. Come and join me… if it pleases you.” She tags on still feeling out of sorts with directing this powerful warrior, even if it is to share her meal.

Moments pass before he hesitantly approaches the table, sliding out a chair opposite her and seating himself in the comically small seat. She offers him her side plate, which she has removed her buttered roll from. Holding it out to him and he takes the plate which is smaller than the length of his hand. He grabs a roll and rips a leg of chicken from the bird watching her warily as he lifts the meat to his mouth, almost as if a dog has been offered a tasty morsel which will be snatched away and kicked for ever hoping it was ever destined for him. Sansa lowers her gaze and focuses on taking delicate bites from the food on her plate whilst her nervous dinner companion helps himself to more food.

She nearly curses, forgetting her courtesies of looks in his direction. He has a mouth full of food and his fingers are slick with grease from the chicken leg in his hand.

“How rude of me, Sandor can I offer you a glass of wine?”

She is shocked when he speaks with a mouth full of food. “No little bird, Arbor gold is too sweet for me.” He swallows before hastily stuffing a roll into his mouth.

Sansa is incredulous and her blue eyes widen as she watches him.

“That is incredibly rude you know?”

Confused grey eyes focus on her with a question in them, so she barrels on.

“Speaking with your mouth full. It isn’t proper. You should have waited to speak once you had cleared your mouth of food. “

“Fuck me, little bird. Didn’t realise dining with you was also an elocution lesson.” He grumbles.

Her ire rises at his cursing.

“You shouldn’t curse either. It is not lordly.”

He sneers at that. “Not a lord though am I? or a Ser.” Grey eyes flash. “Titles don’t mean shit and you know it.”

He has her there; some of the highest born people in the seven kingdoms have treated her in such a poor manner. The King being the worst.

“Could you at least not be so colourful with your cursing?” she asks voice small.

“If I want to use the word fuck, I will use the word fuck. I’m not going to change it and say fork when I mean fuck or bum fluff when I mean bugger. A cunt is a cunt, not a flower of whatever else you wish to call it.” Sansa’s blue eyes are so wide they might spill out of her head at Sandor’s tirade of curses. He seems to notice and grey eyes soften, a twist to his lips, half amused, half sincere. “But where it counts, I will not damage your delicate feminine sensibilities. But hearing me curse don’t mean shite in that instance.”

Silence fills the room but her ears are ringing with so many curse words.

A knock at the door disturbs their awkward silence. Sandor gracefully rises from his chair opposite her and unbars the door, effortlessly opening the heavy wooden door. He is silent and she hears quiet words she cannot make out. Reluctantly it seems he steps aside as two burly castle retainers bring in a heavy metal bath which is promptly followed by the washer women with steaming pails of water.

Her stomach twists. Her eyes as wide as saucers as she watches pail after pail fill the metal tub.

Tonight she will be getting her bath after all.

“Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready for bath time? hmm! ;-)


	4. Chapter 4 - The Bath - Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all I would like to thank you all for the comments and kudos on the previous chapter and the enthusiasm for bath time!
> 
> I have decided to split bath time into two chapters, which I think (hope) will make sense when you reach the end of this instalment?!
> 
> Before continuing although I haven't tagged it as part of the story there are scenes in this chapter that could be determined as angsty/ dubious consent. 
> 
> So readers please bare that in mind as you enter into this chapter and feedback would be greatly appreciated if you feel adding tags are necessary or if these chapter notes are enough...
> 
> Many thanks
> 
> Paws of Three!

Her breath comes out in rapid puffs as she stares at the expanse of bath water before her. This humiliation is happening and there is no escaping from it. King Joffrey has ordered two members of the Kingsguard to guard the door and report back. Ser Meryn leers at her whilst Ser Loras offers an apologetic lift of his lips. Sandor has loosened the ties of her dress whilst she shrugged out that and her slip and small clothes in her bed chamber. A silken robe shields her nakedness, for now.

Candles are lit few and far between casting most of her solar in darkness. The brightest point was before the fire, where the bath was. She watches through fat droplets of tears as an enormous scarred hand dips beneath the still expanse of water, causing ripples to spread from the disturbance. The hand is removed and dried upon a soft looking towel.

“Waters good little bird. Let’s get you bathed.”

She clutches her thin silken robe to her as if it will protect her from the indignant horror to come; breaking her gaze from the expanse of water she stares into grey eyes, pleading with him silently to make it stop. Usually these are void of emotion, but occasionally, especially of late she has been able to interpret what some of his stares mean. Now they are glimmering like liquid Valyrian steel and she thinks he’s feeling pity for her.

He strides towards her and grips her elbow, which makes her cower and whimper. He drops his hand as if burned and she can hear him take a deep steadying breath. Leaning forwards his lips are so close to the shell of her ear and he rumbles a whisper sending a chill down her spine.

“Little bird, I promise that I will not hurt you. Believe that. But we have to give those fuckers a show to report to that greasy cunt, Joff. Got it?”

His head ducks backwards assessing her and she nods her understanding, although she doesn’t understand, not truly. Therefore she is completely unprepared for what happens next.

He lopes behind her all intimidation, muscle and snarl.

“Get your robe off. Now.” He roars.

When she stands there dumb and mute her hands all of a tremble which aren’t quick enough to the tie and his enormous ones interrupt her feeble attempts by whipping around her waist pushing them away, gently whilst he deftly undoes the knot and draws the robe from her body. Cool air assaults her naked frame and she lets out a shocked gasp when she hears a ripping sound from behind her, she turns to see the silken robe being shredded in Sandor’s massive hands. His eyes resolutely stare at the oaken door rather than her exposed nakedness.

Next he bundles up the ripped fabric and tosses it to the floor. “Time to get in.” he sneers, still not looking at her before grabbing her hand and he pulls her, with contained strength towards the tub causing her to squeal out a protest. Her squeals only grow louder with horror as he places his enormous, brutish scarred hands upon her hips, as if he was lifting her from horseback but so very different now. He would only have to splay his fingers wide to be able graze the outreaches of her woman’s place and that ignites her body with gooseflesh, her stomach muscles tightening peculiarly and her nipples bud up upon her rounded breasts. All of this is mere seconds but feels like hours before being brought back to harsh reality as she is deposited in the enormous tub, head dipping underneath the water, drenching her hair and causing the scented water to gush into her nostrils and mouth. For long moments she is all cough and splutter whilst she finds purchase in the damn thing. It is bigger than her usual tub, wider and deeper and the warm water enveloping her body goes right up to her chin now that she has control of her body.

She drags deep wracking breaths into her chest. Forcing them in and out. In and out. Her body betrays her and occasionally harsh wracking sobs escape her as she exhales. Nervously she glances up at the man towering above her to find his gaze carefully trained on the rug beneath the bath. A chilling silence fills the room now that her breaths are under control.

She can hear harsh laughter from behind the door, she recognises it as Ser Meryn for that laugh has been directed at her before, as he has beaten her in the throne room at Joffrey’s command.

A knock resounds in the chamber, which only ceases when Sandor yanks the door open with a snarl.

“Fuck you want, Trant? You’re coming between me and the little wolf. Don’t think you want my hands on you now, do you?”

She hears a crow of laughter as clearly the sight before him is pleasing. Carefully she wraps an arm around her breasts and attempts a subtle look back. The brightness from the corridor casts Ser Meryn and Ser Loras in shadow but light glints off a naked torso, broad of shoulder and narrow of hip with thick curling hair that descends into low-slung breeches… She squeals at the sight and averts her gaze to the fire once more, cowering down into the tub until the warm water hits her chin.

Another cackled laugh. “How I wish I was in your place, Hound. Enjoy bathing the little bitch. I’ll be sure to tell our king about her dishonour.”

“Off you fuck, Trant. Need to get my hands wet.”

Sansa can see the sneered smile directed at Trant and shudders as the door is slammed shut and the door barred. She hears a soft sigh and muttered curse she cannot distinguish, and then… nothing.

Long moments pass where the warm waters shift around her trembling body, arms tightly wrapped around her core, waiting for an assault of grasping hands. She’s never been more vulnerable than she is in this moment, even in the bread riots. The saviour from that awful time is now her tormenter. Still no movement is made to defile her and her resolve is breaking. She glances round again and is drawn into grey eyes. Tully blue locked into slate grey. She realises he hasn’t made a single step towards her watery dwelling and that confuses her.

“W-hy are you just standing there?” she asks incredulously.

Grey eyes widen then narrow with a harsh quirk to his scarred lips. “Would the pretty little bird like me to bathe her feathers? Is that it?”

He stalks around the edge of the room keeping his distance from her and the tub. Almost as if he is afraid to come closer. _Such a preposterous thought._

“Well no, but it has to happen, doesn’t it?” she answers bitterly.

“It only has to happen if you will it.” He replies as softly as a man with the harshest steel on stone voice she has ever heard can utter.

“B-but you told Ser Meryn that you had to get your hands wet.”

“Aye, I did. I also told you that I would not hurt you.” He rasps lower still. “I don’t think you welcome my touch little bird. Speak truly.”

Sansa is flummoxed by his response and so very confused. He truly said he wouldn’t hurt her and now that some of the shock has receded she also remembers his comments of giving Joffrey a show in more scathing tones. Was everything in the last few moments all for effect and he wasn’t going to hurt her now? He said not but she cannot lie to him. She truly did fear for her virtue. Her honour may be in tatters but she is still a maiden. It is not only her honour in tatters though, is it?

She licks her lips and speaks.

“Perhaps not, but I am sure it will be a kinder touch than if it were Ser Meryn. Wouldn’t you agree? I don’t have choices now. You are my hand maiden and I need tending to. This not only demeans me, a lady of a great and noble house, but you too. A renowned and fierce warrior.”

He snorts at that but she can hear him approaching softly. Stealthily.

“Don’t worry about my honour little bird. Aye, I won’t hurt you, but I’m sure it won’t be pleasant for you, either.” He bites out hatefully.

“You are probably right, but we shouldn’t direct our anger at each other. Joffrey put us into this position. We must make the best of it, and right now this water is getting tepid.”

He halts and a quick side glance show he is several feet from the tub, hardened muscles move deeply in a broad chest. _He is as nervous as I am._ She realises.

“You sure? Little bird.”

Closing her eyes and stealing herself before she loses her will.

“Please approach the tub Sandor. I am in need of my bath.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I may have been a bit of a tease at the end. Sorry not sorry!
> 
> I hope you can see why I decided to end it there?!

**Author's Note:**

> So... what did you think?
> 
> Please comment! :-D


End file.
